Complete Project Gutenberg John Galsworthy Works eBook

The breeze had died away, not a fish was rising; save
for the lost music of the larks no birds were piping;
alone, a single pigeon at brief intervals cooed from
the neighbouring wood.

They did not stay much longer in the boat.

On the homeward journey in the pony-cart, rounding
a corner of the road, they came on Ferrand in his
pince-nez, holding a cigarette between his fingers
and talking to a tramp, who was squatting on the bank.
The young foreigner recognised them, and at once
removed his hat.

“There he is,” said Shelton, returning
the salute.

Antonia bowed.

“Oh!” she, cried, when they were out of
hearing, “I wish he ’d go. I can’t
bear to see him; it’s like looking at the dark.”

CHAPTER XXIX

ON THE WING

That night, having gone up to his room, Shelton filled
his pipe for his unpleasant duty. He had resolved
to hint to Ferrand that he had better go. He
was still debating whether to write or go himself to
the young foreigner, when there came a knock and Ferrand
himself appeared.

“I should be sorry,” he said, breaking
an awkward silence, “if you were to think me
ungrateful, but I see no future for me here.
It would be better for me to go. I should never
be content to pass my life in teaching languages ’ce
n’est guere dans mon caractre’.”

As soon as what he had been cudgelling his brains
to find a way of saying had thus been said for him,
Shelton experienced a sense of disapproval.

“What do you expect to get that’s better?”
he said, avoiding Ferrand’s eyes.

“Thanks to your kindness,” replied the
latter, “I find myself restored. I feel
that I ought to make some good efforts to dominate
my social position.”

“I should think it well over, if I were you!”
said Shelton.

“I have, and it seems to me that I’m wasting
my time. For a man with any courage languages
are no career; and, though I ’ve many defects,
I still have courage.”

Shelton let his pipe go out, so pathetic seemed to
him this young man’s faith in his career; it
was no pretended faith, but neither was it, he felt,
his true motive for departure. “He’s
tired,” he thought; “that ’s it.
Tired of one place.” And having the instinctive
sense that nothing would keep Ferrand, he redoubled
his advice.

“I should have thought,” he said, “that
you would have done better to have held on here and
saved a little before going off to God knows what.”

“To save,” said Ferrand, “is impossible
for me, but, thanks to you and your good friends,
I ’ve enough to make front to first necessities.
I’m in correspondence with a friend; it’s
of great importance for me to reach Paris before all
the world returns. I ’ve a chance to get,
a post in one of the West African companies.
One makes fortunes out there—­if one survives,
and, as you know, I don’t set too much store
by life.”